Finding the Plot
by Igorina
Summary: Ever since his return from the Bi-millennial Dark Forces Convivium Leviathan's been on a modernisation drive, and now he's got a very special task for his top Cenobite. Can Pinhead and co crack the modern fiction market before they're all doomed to a perpetual hell of team building workshops? And can Kirsty Cotton manage to avoid being suckered in to the madness?
1. Leviathan's Game

**A/N:** I've been re-watching some old favourites lately and Hellraiser was on the list (as well as a movie about an entirely different Labyrinth with a rather more glittery antagonist). Given my penchant for silly humour this is the inevitable result.

He stared silently at the screen.

He'd been staring silently at the screen for the last half-hour, the only sign that he wasn't a marble statue an intermittent twitching between his eyes.

It was ridiculous. The task the dark god Leviathan had assigned him was a frippery. A mere trifle, that he could only hope was punishment for some minor lapse purpose. Yet focus as he did the words would not flow. Part of him wanted smash his fist down onto the flimsy desk that had been supplied for the endeavour. However, that would be an unforgivable sign of weakness. A lapse in the seemingly endless patience that had raised him so high in his god's favour.

 _To think that I who have spent years carefully breaking apart the bodies and souls of the strongest of the human species, should fail at this paltry task._

After another three minutes had past, his female follower cleared her exposed throat. "I have been searching for a solution. This catechism on _Tips for Aspiring Authors_ says that writers' block may be cured by taking time to do something that one enjoys."

"This is not writer's block, I am merely considering the best way to proceed. Leviathan has tasked us with creating a work that will swell our ranks with new supplicants, eager to explore the further reaches of experience."

As he said the words, he knew that they were lacking in conviction. The fact was that he was starting to wonder whether Leviathan had – to use that colourful British idiom - gone stark raving bonkers.

It has all started with the internet.

Well, no, it hadn't started with the internet. That had merely been the first symptom. It had started with Leviathan's temporary departure for the Bi-millennial Dark Forces of the Multiverse Convivium. When the dark god had returned he had summoned the highest ranked amongst the unholy order and stressed a need to 'establish a more synergistic relationship with modern humanity'. On reflection the use of the word 'synergistic' should had set alarm bells ringing. However, he hadn't realised until the equipment had started to arrive just what that might entail. He had thought that the whole embarrassing 'Hellworld' débâcle would be enough to ensure that the Cenobites continued to remain aloof from "Information Technology". However, the team of humans had arrived and – shockingly unmolested by the Cenobites – installed miles of wiring, servers, routers and transdimensional beacons, while audibly comparing the majesty of the Labyrinth to the other dimensions where they'd worked their dubious magics.

" _Wish we were back in Mordor,"_ he'd overheard a scruffy looking youth in a Dethklok t-shirt mutter. _"At least some of the Orcs were a laugh – and it didn't stink of vanilla."_

" _Look say what you want about these guys, but at least we're not dealing with the Goblin King any more,"_ said his supervisor, a small thin red-head whose blood-espresso content should have been fatal. _"It took five weeks to stop Kevin reeking of the Bog of Eternal Stench."_

" _Well I was talking to that Butter Bloke earlier – got a mouth on him once he gets going. And he reckons that his Boss Man's got his own Jareth-Sarah situation going on. If you know what I mean."_

" _Better hurry up and before we end up in the middle of it again then."_

" _Where are we going next anyway."_

" _You're going to install a new server in Silent Hill. I''ll be negotiating a new contract with Well Wraith Multimedia"_

" _Again?"_

" _They're our best clients, but they seem to change their business model every seven days."_

Pinhead had been of a mind to flay the pair of them there and then for the casual insolence. However, an admonition from Leviathan had rung out in his head, and he had acquiesced – however reluctantly - to his Lord's command

Within week the changes had started.

The Daily 'Souls Reaped' Achievements Bulletin.

The weekly senior management strategy review meetings.

The online Gash Member Performance appraisal forms.

When he'd finally been summoned alone into Leviathan's presence. He had thought that all would be revealed, and the method to the madness would be revealed to him. He had been wrong. Woefully wrong.

Rotating above the Labyrinth the dark god had spoken to him. "It has come to my attention that there has been an awakening amongst the Earth's female population. They cry out to experience the flesh in ways they have not before."

"There will always be such awakenings and we will always ready to-"

"No, my son. This is different. This new. This is Fifty Shades of Grey."

Pinhead had merely stared as the relevant information had been seared directly into his mind.

"We must capitalise on this opportunity. The book does not go far enough. You must open their eyes to a new universe of flesh, hunger and desire."

Realisation instantly began to dawn. "You mean-"

"Yes, I want you to write a new novel. A thrilling exploration of the extremes of sensation, that will lead them to seek you out."

Which was why he was currently there staring at a blank word file. It really shouldn't have been difficult. The book in question barely dipped it's little toe into the sea of sensation. He by contrast was a virtuoso of the art. And yet there he was unable to think up a plot.

"Perhaps you could start with the title, and then weave together a story that merges the genre conventions with our explorations." the female suggested.

The Chatterer gnashed his teeth in agreement.

He thought about this and decided that there was merit to this suggestion.

Slowly he began to type, his fingers hunting and pecking at the QUERTY keyboard.

 _ **A Cacophony of Black: Book 1**_

An odd feeling of satisfaction swept through him. He had finally made a start. Then deciding that he was on a roll, he continued.

 _ **Billionaire playboy hell priest Totec Black looked around the exquisite emptiness of his vast chamber and contemplated his success. Once again, the performance of Gash Industries had eclipsed the other unworthy competitors in the sector, making them number one on the Leviathan Share Index. Yet, as the hooks and chains descending from the ceiling clinked together melodiously, he felt as if something undefinable was missing.**_

He paused. This was good. He'd established that his main character as a powerful, successful alpha-male type. The key to the genre. The trouble that he wasn't quite sure how to move things forward.

"An assistant," said the female, as if reading his thoughts. "She arrives with important news."

 _ **There was a knock at the door.**_

" _ **Enter," he ordered.**_

 _ **It was his personal assistant Nickoletta Selyse, dressed in a businesslike black suit. She was followed by his his heavily scarred head of security, a man known only as 'Gnasher'. Also dressed in black.**_

" _ **What is it?" he demanded, in a voice of calm command. Annoyed by the interruption as he was, it would not do allow his irritation to show.**_

" _ **It's Princess Angelica of Dis," said Nickoletta, mouth pursing in distaste. "She's accusing you of sabotage… again."**_

 _ **Gnasher ground his teeth in anger.**_

 _ **He regarded the pair coolly. "She's always accusing me of sabotage. Last year she claimed that I'd stolen the plans for the Elysium Fields development from her safe." He had in fact been responsible for the scheme's failure, but he'd done it properly – by conveying the architect to spend an eternity of pain in the presence of the dark god.**_

" _ **Well, this time the authorities have listened to her incessant mewling. They've had Butters detained in Milan on terrorism charges."**_

 _ **He pondered this. Having his accountant arrested was a bold move even for the impetuous and foolish Princess."Send our best lawyers, and have the Wyre Twins looks into what dear cousin Angelica has been doing lately."**_

 _ **Nickoletta nodded.**_

" _ **Is there anything else?"**_

" _ **Yesterday evening Gnasher caught a woman trying to break in."**_

" _ **Oh." Had he had any eyebrows he would have raised one enquiringly.**_

" _ **She says that her name's Kristin Silk, and that you were responsible for her father's disappearance. She's been locked up downstairs over night. Should we call the authorities, or would like us to 'dispose' of the problem ourselves?"**_

Re-reading what he had just written, Pinhead inwardly smiled. This was going well. Just one page in and he'd already introduced the brooding protagonist, the spirited heroine, two members of the supporting cast and an espionage sub-plot. When the bell signalling their imminent summoning to the mortal realm began to toll he felt almost sorry to be leaving his work in progress incomplete.

As they departed the female looked at him meaningfully. "I think that we should make more of the personal assistant character. She's clearly the best placed to investigate the Princess – and the Wire Twins lack subtlety."

High above the Labyrinth, Leviathan looked on as the door between worlds was opened once more. Now that he was certain that his most favoured – and alas most observant – enforcer was preoccupied with the most ridiculous busywork imaginable, it was finally Time To Play.

The portal sprung into life.

 **...Multiverse of Warcraft is Opening**

CrazyBlackDiamond is online

EyeOfMordor: Hey, look who finally decided to show.

CrazyBlackDiamond: Finally got Pinhead looking the other way.

EyeOfMordor: You should try sending him on a jewellery quest. Worked a treat withAngmar and the Nazgul.

CrazyBlackDiamond: Yes, but I remember what happened the last time he was allowed out without a box-imposed curfew. Irate angelic visitations for days.

inSidious: Gentlemen are we going to bitch about our underlings all day, or are we going to give the Forces of Good a thrashing that they'll never forget.

CrazyBlackDiamond: FOR THE HOARD!

 **-o0O0o-**

 **A/N:** Will Pinhead and co finish their sordid opus? Can Leviathan's favourite avoid being subjected to a Management Training Seminar? Which 'lucky' mortal lady will be given the task of reviewing the manuscript? Will anybody actually realise that the Dark God is trolling the shit out of them?


	2. Trolls and Demons

**A/N:** Big thank you to everybody who commented on the first part of this story. What can I say, I'm an explorer in the further reaches of absurdity, a seeker of forbidden forms of silliness.

And now Part The Second: in which Pinhead ponders narrative structure, Butterball embarks on an adventure in trolling, Kirsty gets a new job (and wishes she hadn't), and we examine the centrality of Game of Thrones analogies to modern day office politics.

 **-o0O0o-**

"Well, it looks like we're just waiting for Angelique."

Pinhead looked at Channard and wondered, not for the first time, what role in Leviathan's great plan the former psychiatrist was suppose to be playing. It wasn't as though he actually seemed to do much. Well, there was the odd bit of desultory pain infliction on the new intake every now and again, which Channard insisted on calling 'experimentation', but in actuality comprised a set of thoroughly passe techniques that had fallen out of favour with the rest of the Order centuries ago(1). Pinhead privately suspected that Leviathan kept him around as an object lesson and cautionary reminder to his top Hell Priest. _WARNING: This is what you get when you allow yourself to be driven to distraction by a curly-haired ingénue who dredges up old memories and makes you feel funny in your cassock._

They were presently seated at the obsidian table in an old chamber that had recently been transformed into what was now officially known as the Managerial Board Breakout Room. A rather misleading title given that there wasn't any actual 'breaking' equipment in there, not even a simple flogger or bull whip. No, there was just a host of fancy technological nik-naks that none of them quite new how to work. Although this had not prevented Channard from having a go, and - during the Labyrinth-wide "system crash" that followed - Pinhead had derived a certain satisfaction from watching Leviathan subject the upstart to a prolonged telepathic deballing (followed by a few rather more literal ones). Not that Pinhead actually had any idea what Tauren Warriors and Blood Elf Paladins were, or why the dark god should be so very distressed about losing contact with them for half an hour.

"If the Princess does not deign to join us in Leviathan's service, I see no reason to delay."

"Should I put that in the minutes?" piped up Julia Cotton, who had somehow managed to weasel her way into the meeting as note taker.

"Yes!"

"And does everybody else agree?"

Channard opened and closed his mouth in a manner faintly reminiscent of an asphyxiating fish. For all of the Leviathan-granted vigour during their battle, he clearly didn't relish the prospect of finding himself forced to cast the deciding vote in a spat between Pinhead and Angelique. Fortunately for Channard however it was at that moment that the dread-portal of a metal door swung open and a scowling Princess of Hell emerged.

"Ah, Princess," Channard began. "We were just-"

She cut him off by slamming her fist onto the table in a gestured that was clearly intended to be defiant, but just came off as petulant.

"No longer a Princess, Qyburn. A Khaleesi!"

For several moments there was dead silence. Then Julia Cotton muttered something under her breath about the inherent superiority of Lannisters.

When Angelique snarled and loudly announced that she would take the Iron Throne with iron and blood, Pinhead merely stared at them, aware that their mouths were moving, but quite unable to make sense of the gibberish that was emerging.

Just another day in the service of Leviathan.

(1) Nothing like the Spanish Inquisition for making the exquisitely outré embarrassingly mainstream.

 **-o0O0o-**

Some time later he returned to his acolytes in the large chamber that served as their main gathering area: enlightened as to the nature of the ongoing squabbles between the great houses of Westeros, but completely nonplussed as why Leviathan was permitting the denizens of the Labyrinth to devote quite so much time speculating on the matter. And what was a "Torrent" anyway? Still, the dark God's motivations were unfathomable, and he found himself oddly pleased to return to his literary endeavours, even if there was something faintly off-putting about the way that all of his minions were crowding around as he contemplated the story. It wasn't as though he was in any way ashamed of his work in progress. Not at all. In fact, he was really rather proud of the first part of the interrogation scene... It was just difficult to contemplate the seduction of the not-quite-so-innocent-as-she-thinks-she-is-but-still-charmingly-unschooled heroine with so many eyes watching every keystroke.

 _**"Where's my father?" Squirming in the grip of the chains that suspended her several feat above the ground, she glared at him. She was angry and that anger had temporarily subsumed her terror at being alone and at the mercy of this intimidating yet darkly compelling man. However, there was something else there too, a simmering undercurrent that was neither fear nor rage, but which sensitised her flesh to the slightest brush of fabric or breath of air.** _

_**Slowly he circled around her, a look of quiet amusement on his face. He could almost taste the conflicting emotions battling within her. "And what makes you think that I know where he is."** _

_**"I saw you talking to Professor Mallard."** _

Pinhead thought for a moment and then replaced Mallard with Callard. As satisfying as imagining Channard with the giant phallic structure on his head replaced with a rubber duck might be, Totec Black and Kristin Silk deserved an arch-nemesis with at least a modicum of dignity.

 _**"I saw you talking to Professor Callard."** _

_**"Many people speak with Professor Callard. He's a recognised expert in the field of-"** _

He pondered what to put here. Psychiatry wouldn't really work unless he wanted to suggest that Black was in therapy. But what else would suit: "stating the obvious", "doing bugger all", "getting strung along by undead middle-aged housewives". In the end he went with "medicine", reasoning that he could change it later if need be.

 _**Struggling in her bonds she became intently aware of the way his gaze was boring into her. Nipples growing hard she-** _

Fingers came to a halt over the keyboard as he contemplated whether this was truly the right time for hard nipples, or whether it was too much too soon. It was perfectly logical and reasonable that his heroine would be thus affected by the dark majesty of Totec Black. However, this was their first face-to-face encounter, and there was no point in rushing things when he had about six-hundred pages to know her flesh. Indeed, there hadn't even been any introductory body piercings or getting-to-know-you bloodletting yet. He therefore decided that while hard nipples were implicitly present, now was – narratively speaking - probably not the time to rhapsodise about them. He was about to delete the words when the most intellectually limited of his dark disciples decided to open his mouth.

"I don't get it, why doesn't he just nail her right there and carry her off to hell as his sex slave? She's chained up isn't she?"

Pinhead regarded Pistonhead(2) with an expression that, while utterly impassive in every visible way, still manage to convey an Arctic waste's worth of cold contempt.

"Because if he simply had his way and dragged her off to the Netherworld the entire story would be ten pages long. Hardly a novel. And besides it would not appeal to the souls that we are seeking to captivate with this fiction. We need to coax them into our embrace."

"But you said that we do pain not temptation!"

He inwardly chided himself for allowing Angelique to draw him into a public debate about the relative merits of their preferred modus-operandi, and wondered why Pistonhead seemed to be able to remember inconsequential arguments from several months ago, but not how to adequately maintain the blades and hooks that the Order relied on.

"If you recall correctly. I pointed out that pain was generally more efficient than temptation when dealing with an immediate obstacle. There is a place for seduction."

"Then why doesn't he just get Angelique to do it?"

This irritated Pinhead rather more than he was willing to admit. It wasn't as though he couldn't do seduction if he wanted to. It was just that he found terrifying threats and dramatic pronouncements of pain more expedient and, well... entertaining. On reflection, letting the junior members of the Gash in on the endeavour had been a mistake. Well, if he was entirely honest with himself he'd concede that creating them in the first place had been something of a blunder: a side effect of what the lower members of the Order referred to – though never directly to his face - as the "Epic Bender". It had, he recalled, been fun while the slaughter-high had lasted, but after the forcible reintegration of his human side he'd found himself feeling a bit embarrassed about the world domination bid. On returning to Leviathan's realm following the rampage, he had asked his lord and master to remake the new additions in a more seemly form. Leviathan, irked by the stroppy missives that he'd been receiving from divine powers and "concerned third parties" about the incident, had however taken a firm line on the matter. A Cenobite was for eternity, not just for a night out on the town, and that as Pinhead was responsible for creating them it was his job to mould them into something that would do credit to the Gash.

Having since made up for the incident with his renewed commitment to exploring the extremes of sensation in a way befitting Leviathan's top Hell Priest, he had recently broached the matter of palming them off on some lesser lord or lady of pain. However, as the request has been made post-Convivium, his god had a merely had merely imparted something about the need to implement a structured staff induction and training programme. Thus he was stuck with them for the foreseeable future.

"This prattle is tiresome." He fixed his gaze on his recalcitrant underling. "And besides, the Chatter Beast requires exercise."

"But I took him for a grand tour of the tormented souls last time. It's her turn." He jabbed a finger at Dreamer.

"You recall that one condition of that creature's creation was that I would not be exclusively responsible for its maintenance."

The mechanical parts lodged in his head made a huffing noise. "I only said that it would be kind neat to have a hellhound."

"Enough. You will take charge of the beast and she will accompany you." As pair stomped away, he regarded the rest of his followers. He saw no reason for them to be standing there staring while he tried to figure out just how his protagonist was going to convince his heroine to pursue the dark path of pleasure and pain. "You!" He pointed at Camerahead and the rest of the 'new builds'. "Find some suitable images to put on the front cover."

The Wire Twins made a tittering noise.

He turned his gaze to them. "Return to your work on our newest supplicant."

Not in the least bit abashed, they tittered once again, before cheerfully slinking off in the direction of the chambers of illusion. For a moment he considered upbraiding them on their disrespectful demeanour, but decided against it on the basis that their enthusiasm for their work served as an example to others.

"And what of us," the Female asked, with a glance towards Chatterer.

"I see no reason for us to duplicate our efforts. If you work on the side story while I focus on the central plot we can simply merge them together at the end."

This seemed to sit well with both of them, who were both inexplicably more engaged with the secondary characters and their mystery solving antics anyway.

-  
(2) Pinhead had since amended the Hell Priest Handbook(2a) to contain a strongly worded caution against lobotomising future acolytes with mechanical hardware.

(2a) Readership of one. Never ever to be confused with Hell Princess Handbook(2b).

(2b) Presently the Hell Kahleesi Handbook.

 **-o0O0o-**

Butterball sensed the others disperse, largely unbothered by the fact that he hadn't been asked to play any part in the great literary endeavour. He knew that, when it came down to it, he was destined to be "that other guy" in the Prince of Pain's entourage, and while it irked not to have his many contributions recognised, it did give him chance to pursue 'outside interests'. An opportunity that he had recently seized with both distorted hands, following his encounter with Assistant Information Systems Technician Leon Waters during the Great Modernisation. After several hours of menacing the mortal by standing still and looming over the youth, who'd been doing something complicated with cables and routers, Butterball's curiosity had got the better of him, and the question: "so what are you actually doing here and why have we been forbidden from stringing you up and inducting you into our unique pleasures by gouging out your intestines?" had slipped out. It had ruined the psychological torment, but opened his sewn and shaded eyes to a whole new plane of experience. A digital realm that could evoke both the greatest depths of rage and despair and the highest reaches of Nirvana – sometimes within two minutes of one another.

Humming cheerfully to himself, he used his accessible tablet to create his latest masterpiece. A picture of a wailing girl in a tiara over the words:

 _You are about as seductive as Chatter Beast's rear-end and Senpai wishes that he didn't have to notice you._

Part of him wished that he could remove the stitches from his eyes and visually revel in his handiwork. However, it was enough that it took only a few moments of tapping on the Braille Keypad (optimised for the larger-fingered cenobite), to open his secret gmail account (theblindseeall_259) and send it straight to Angelique's inbox. The thought of her seething with impotent fury at the insult delighted him. And he was certain that she'd never suspect "That revolting mass of blubber" of doing anything so devious.

Well, it served her right for demeaning him in front of his colleagues, and he knew that his new online acquaintances would support this bold – if anonymous - stand against body shaming. After all, it wasn't as if any of them could help the way Leviathan re-made them.

As he contemplated his triumph a cheerful melody – quite at odds with the ambiance of the Labyrinth—told him that his new acquaintance was now available on Multiverse Messenger. Feeling the need to brag to somebody about his latest venture, he opened a chat box.

 **phat_cenobite:** Greetings  
 **LeonExposition:** yo B-Ball, sup  
 **phat_cenobite:** Revenge is sweet  
 **phat_cenobite:**  
 **LeonExposition:** lmfao  
 **phat_cenobite:** Are you still in the inferior realm of pain?  
 **LeonExposition:** nah, left silent hill 2days ago, back in head office  
 **LeonExposition:** kev and me still debating who'd win in a fight between your Boss Man and Pyramid Head tho.  
 **phat_cenobite:** You're on the right side I take it?  
 **LeonExposition:** damn str8t. Go Team Leviathan!  
 **phat_cenobite:** JOIN US  
 **phat_cenobite:** Seriously. Wire Twin #2 says that you are cute and would slip her hands under your skin in a heartbeat.  
 **LeonExposition:** no way bro. vanilla body spray and xtreme bodymod not my style. sleeve tattoo enough work. tho tell Wire Babe thnx  
 **LeonExposition:** anyway im seeing dethklok in three weeks  
 **phat_cenobite:** I wish that somebody would open the configuration in the middle of one of their concerts. I missed all the fun at the Boiler Room :(  
 **LeonExposition:** that would be so fuckin metal  
 **LeonExposition:** hey you sure you cant come up here for a few hours?  
 **phat_cenobite:** We can't leave unless somebody summons us with the box. Unless you want to let us in on the secret of how you all got down here and back :hint hint:  
 **LeonExposition:** sorry bro, can't. even if jenny wouldn't obliterate me I dont actually know how the portals work. not on the 'need to know' list apparently. its like they dont trust me to do anything  
 **phat_cenobite:** I'm familiar with the feeling.  
 **LeonExposition:** your Boss Man's loss. you're the only one in your dimension who knows how to use private browsing and do a factory reset  
 **phat_cenobite:** Seriously?  
 **LeonExposition:** you wouldn't believe what we saw when your Princess sent her old laptop back cos she turned the antivirus off. I've never seen kev laugh so much. he wasnt even looking looking for stuff it was just there!  
 **phat_cenobite:** What was on there?  
 **LeonExposition:** do you know what cosplay is?  
 **LeonExposition:**  
 **phat_cenobite:** ….. Rolling on the Floor Shedding my Adipose Tissue in Mirth  
 **LeonExposition:** know you can't see it, but the visuals are even funnier than the audio… looks like shes racking up serious coin on the private chat tho  
 **LeonExposition:** oh fuck, better go, looks like american office lady wants me to do boring meeting crap  
 **phat_cenobite:** Until next time then  
 **LeonExposition:** stay metal bro

Snickering to himself, Butterball was about to close the chat box when a hand reached down and seized the tablet. He did not have to turn to know who it was.

For several seconds his leader scrutinised the words on the screen. Then he turned his dark gaze on Butterball, who desperately hoped that this would not result in him having his internet privileges revoked.

"I don't recall permitting this fraternisation."

Butterball didn't respond, aware that a retort would put him in the "mewling whelp" category with Pistonhead, and possibly lead to him having to clean up Chatter Beast's ordure for the next few centuries.

After a few moments during which his demeanour remained even more inscrutable than usual, Pinhead returned the tablet.

"What _is_ a factory reset?"

Butterball attempted to explain, but the resulting silence suggested that the message was not quite being received and understood. Nonetheless, the Prince of Pain did have the foresight to realise that having somebody around who knew how to make the wretched equipment work could be an asset.

"Very well then, you may continue this experiment."

Butterball waited expectantly for his tablet to be returned.

"Once you have attended to your duties."

Oh well, it could have been worse. And maybe initiating a few more souls into the realms extreme sensation would be just what he needed to get the creative juices flowing for his next anonymous message.

 **-o0O0o-**

 **...Meanwhile On Earth**

Kirsty Cotton looked at the rain hitting the office window and wondered, for about the eighth time that afternoon, what she was doing here in this God-forsaken, sunshine-foresaken town in Southern England. Sure, she had been "let go" from her last job following an embarrassing misunderstanding about a perfectly innocent rubrics cube… and she cringed when she recalled the time before that, when a set of blue Christmas lights had unexpectedly jumped to life outside the office window, casting that horribly familiar glow and causing those even more horribly familiar feelings of dread. However, there was enough of her inheritance left to mean that she could have maintained a modest lifestyle without actually having to work.

Truth be told, when she'd emailed the enquiry form to Transdimensional Solutions UK during one of those midday resume blitzes, she hadn't seriously expected to hear from them. It had just been one of those moments where being an ocean away from, well, _everything_ had been a pleasant escapist fantasy. When the invitation to the interview for the post of Office Manager: Information Systems Department had arrived, she'd accepted, deciding that she might as well take a holiday. However, after one week of endless drizzle, minor food poisoning, and a swirly carpeted Airbnb mistake that hadn't been redecorated since 1975, she'd felt perverse enough to flunk the interview on purpose.

Easy enough right. Just make yourself sound like some crazy bitch who sees demons. Yeah, like that was a challenge.

The trouble was that the four members of the panel hadn't recoiled when she'd mentioned The Box in response to their enquiry about her experience of handling stressful situations. Hadn't demanded that she leave when she'd told them about what – or rather _who_ \- came out of it, in reply to a remark about her patchy employment history. Instead, Diarmait Fairchild (CEO), had looked meaningfully at Cynthia Richards (Human Resources), while Jenny Mackenzie (Director of Information Systems) had turned to Kevin Banks (Senior Technician) and said "Well, looks like that's the triumvirate : a giant dong, a camwhore, and a stalker. I think that I'd play Warcraft all day too if I had to preside over that." To which Kevin had replied: "Maybe he just needs a Tindr profile."

Then they'd turned their eyes back on her, and started the _real_ questioning.

 _"Now, Kirsty, do you think that you think that you could work in the same office as this being?"_ Cynthia had flashed her a motherly smile and held picture of something that looked like it belonged in a Peter Jackson movie. Scary if you were six, but almost ugly-cute compared to the eldrich beings she'd been unfortunate enough to encounter

 _Does it want to kill me or drag me to hell?_

A shrug from Kevin Banks. _"No, as far as we can tell Gruzlak's main interests are taking selfies, doing pointless quizzes and watching Peppa Pig on Youtube."_

 _Then I'm fine with him._

An appraising look from Diarmait Fairchild. _"A dark haired girl in a white dress crawls out of your computer monitor and starts dripping water everywhere, how do you react?"_

 _What? Is that why you keep a towel rack over there by the whiteboard? Look, I've heard about that Seven Day Video. I wouldn't be dumb enough to watch the whole thing right through._

 _"Well done on spotting the towels. Now, these puzzle boxes. I do have to ask: is this some kind of masochistic addiction, or were you just unlucky?"_

 _Hey Look. It wasn't my fault!_

A cynical glance from Jenny Mackenzie, who had looked like she's heard it all before and hadn't believed a word of it the first time. _"Let's cut the bullshit preamble and get straight to the point. Do you think that you could work here for more than four weeks without having a nervous breakdown, running off with the Goblin King, or doing anything else that would result in a metric fuck-ton of paperwork being left for some half-witted temp to pick up?"_

Kirsty had been about to bolt there and then. Leave her luggage at the awful apartment (there was nothing irreplaceable in there), get a cab to the nearest airport, and get her ass on the first plane out of there… the destination didn't matter. Alas, that had been the point at which Cynthia had raised the matter of the Contract, or – to give it its full title - "The Client-Provider Mutual Expectations And Responsibilities Agreement". The document in which the company's "valued customers" promised, under threat of immediate cessation of services, that they would not attempt kill, maim, transmogrify, or actively attempt to ensnare into eternal damnation, any Transdimensional Solutions UK staff member except for reasons of self-defence or extreme provocation.

And that was how she'd been suckered. A promise that _"They"_ (or perhaps more to the point _"He"_ ) would be contractually obliged to leave her the fuck alone, even if she would be contractually obliged to do her bit to ensure that they received continuity of service and access to a team of expert technical staff.

For the most part, the work wasn't all that difficult: basic book keeping, buying in office supplies (with emphasis on maintaining a constant flow of coffee), and chasing up the paperwork that nobody else seemed to be interested in doing (the general attitude of the Information Systems Team being that as the ones bringing in 90% of the company's profit they couldn't be expected to lower themselves to such Plebeian tasks as filling in time sheets and accounting for petty cash withdrawals). However, having to chair the weekly "Team Sharing and Brainstorming" session was quickly becoming the bane of her existence.

"….I'm telling you we're the Nights Watch," Kevin Banks declared, hitting the table for emphasis.

This elicited emphatic nods of agreement from Lydia Wilkins (Data Analyst) and Gruzlak (Mordor Liason). However, Rashid Kahn (Senior Hardware Engineer) violently shook his head.

"Faceless Men, all the way. Right Jenny?" He looked imploringly at the Director of Information Systems, whose eyes were fixed on her tablet.

"Neither of them work," Jenny said, not bothering to raise her eyes from the screen. "If we met the White Walkers we'd try to sell them a fully integrated multiversal connectivity package. And as for the Faceless Men, most of you would make really shit assassins." For a split second, the petite-redhead seemed to flick a knowing glance in Kirsty's direction, but that could just have been her own paranoid imagination. She might have been crazy enough to bring up the box, but wasn't stupid enough to mention Trevor. "We're more like the Iron Bank of Braavos. We don't care who the fuck you are as long as you deliver on the payment plan."

Kirsty sighed. "My point is that the staff personality tests might suck, but we shouldn't just go and replace them them with a _Which Game of Thrones Character are You quiz_."

"Absolutely," said Winona Buttermill-Travers (Departmental Social Media Coordinator) enthusiastically. "A _Which Downton Abbey Character are You_ test would offer a much more positive range of personalities."

The evoked a wave of protest from Kevin and Lydia.

Kirsty felt the urge to facepalm rising. A feeling not helped by the sudden, and entirely unbidden, mental image of _Him_ smirking at her ever growing frustration. Oddly it did not elicit the usual wave of dread, but rather a sense of disgruntled envy. She bet that nobody had ever forced _Him_ to organise a Team Building Weekend in North Wales. Although the mental image of a bunch of sadomasochistic torture demons doing trust exercises and bonding through paintball did make the sides of her mouth suddenly quirk upwards. "Okay, let's put all of this to one side for now, and move to the last item on the agenda. Next month's charity fund raiser for the Summerstorm Animal Shelter."

This was met by a wave of groans.

"C'mon, we need ideas people. The CEO wants every department to do something. The best one wins a prize." She tried to sound upbeat, but it didn't really work. She was already heartily sick of being the Enthusiastic American. A role that everybody seemed to imagine that she was just desperate to fill. As if coming from the other side of the Atlantic automatically imbued her with some kind of intense Go Team Go spirit.

"If worst comes to worst I could probably scrape together enough semi-respectable rich people for one of those godawful pay-per-plate dinners," said Jenny, finally deciding to disengage from her tablet and exercise some actual leadership.

Winona frowned. "Shouldn't we be aiming to do something that's accessible to people of a wide range of backgrounds, and not just rich people trying to delude themselves into thinking that they're contributing towards society." Inwardly shaking her head, Kirsty wondered – not for the first time - what somebody with a highly developed social conscience was doing working for an organisation like this.

"Then come up with something else," was Jenny's reply.

There were several seconds of silence.

"Look," said Kirsty. "We'll go around the table and everybody has to make at least one suggestion – no matter how ridiculous it might seem. Okay, I'm going to say it: Bake Sale."

The silence remained.

"You heard the woman," Jenny said, leaning back. "Get on with it Kev."

Kevin glanced around him as if seeking inspiration. "Oh… I dunno. A tombola."

Clearly uninspired by the idea, everybody then looked at Lydia who was sitting on his right and looking slightly more upbeat and engaged. "Sponsored hike up Ben Nevis… or maybe we could have a sponsored football match with R and D."

"Sponsored Hobbit Hunt!" Gruzlak blurted out. Then looking faintly embarrassed, he cleared his throat and added. "Well, we could do an artistic staff calendar… like in Calendar Girls."

"Nobody's going to pay to to see us in the nuddy, mate," said Kevin, looking down mournfully at his beer belly.

"We could try to start something like the ice bucket challenge or no make-up selfies," suggested Winona. "How about taking pictures of ourselves pretending to be the different animals at the shelter."

All eyes then fell on the tall, rangy young man in heavy metal paraphernalia, who was too entranced by whatever was happening on his macbook to notice that everybody was staring at him. Leon Waters (Assistant Technician) was Jenny's fetch and carry boy and – as far as Kirsty could tell – generally considered to be the departmental idiot.

"Leon," Kirsty prompted.

He gave a start. "Wh..what is it?"

"What's your idea for the fundraiser?"

"Um… I, just give me a minute."

Jenny glowered at him. "Leon, for fuck's sake, you can chat with Flubber in your own time."

"Who's Flubber?" asked Rashid.

"Leon made a little friend on our last visit to the S&M Club. You know, the one that looks like a bubonic marshmallow."

"Hey. B-ball's got feelings too," Leon protested.

"Your idea," Kirsty prompted. Well aware of which extra-dimensional domain 'The S&M Club' was the office slang for, and really not wanting to dwell on the matter

After several moments of embarrassed indecision an idea seemed to dawn. "Charity boxing match."

"What, you think that people would pay to see Gruzlak beat you up again?" said Lydia, inducing a round of tittering.

"No, we wouldn't be fighting each other. We'd involve the clients. It'd be really fucking hardcore. Me and Kev were talking about it: Pyramid Head versus Pinhead."

Kirsty really hoped that she hadn't gone as pale as she suddenly felt.

"That was idle speculation," Kevin protested. "And besides even if we did somehow manage to set it up without getting torn limb from limb, it's hardly as if we could invite members of the public to watch, is it."

"Well, we'd have to do a pay-per-view livestream – but I bet there would be loads of interests. And we could make some money for ourselves by running the betting pool. We'd have the best Christmas Party ever."

Jenny shook her head. "Leon, I appreciate your sudden interest in contributing to the staff social fund. However, do you seriously expect me to pick up the direct line and say: 'Excuse me, we know you're busy tormenting the damned, but could you spare a few hours next month to help sick donkeys by fighting some other scary fucker with an interesting taste in headgear.'"

Leon opened his mouth, but was cut of my a sudden high pitched whining coming from the complicated looking machinery that lay in the corner of the open plan office.

"Oh bloody hell, it's the emergency line," Kevin moaned.

Jenny, snapping from bored languor to brisk efficiency, got to her feet and seized what looked to be a particularly flashy smartphone from the top,

"Hello, this is the Director of Information Systems. Please calmly explain the nature of your technical emergency."

Within the space of half a minute her expression went from alert, to disbelieving, to pissed-off, culminating with her silently mouthing the word "wanker", and making a thoroughly obscene gesture.

"So, you don't actually have a technical emergency?"

Kirsty looked enquiringly at the other staff members.

"We sometimes get time wasters on the line," Kevin explained. "This time it looks like your, er, old acquaintance is pissing us about."

She was opening her mouth demand more details when Jenny urgently gestured at her to be quiet, before asking the person on the other end: "Well, what exactly do you want to use the car for?"

The reply must have been hilarious, because the redhead suddenly seemed to be fighting back an attack of the giggles. "And you want to know what women like?"

Kirsty wasn't sure whether the sensation that flooded through her was terror, anger, hilarity, or some combination of all three.

"Alright, fine, I'll ask the team. Just let me put you on hold," Jenny said, putting the phone back down and looking at the assembled staff members.

"You are not going to believe this."

 **-o0O0o-**

Returning to his seat, Pinhead regarded the paragraph he was working on.

 _**He smiled to himself as she fled from the grounds, her already dishevelled curly black hair tossed and buffeted by the wind. She thought that she had triumphed, escaped from his grasp. It had not occurred to her that he had purposefully left the bonds just loose enough to slip a hand through, nor that one would only leave the key in the door if one intended for it to be used. No, their game had only just begun. Alas, for him so had the more mundane daily tasks that life as a billionaire Hell Priest demanded, and it was with resignation that he made his way to the garage where his car, a-** _

It was a that point that he found himself in a quandary. What kind of car would Totec Black drive? It had to be something outrageously upmarket, but not gauche enough to give the impression that he was trying to overcompensate for anything. Sadly, Elliot Spencer's memories offered no help here. Nothing from the early part of the 20th would really work in the 21st century car chase that he had decided to include half-way through the story. And besides, it couldn't simply be a man's fantasy vehicle, it needed to appeal to women too.

Momentarily confounded, his eyes were drawn back to the device that he'd confiscated from Butterball. The content was inane, largely ungrammatical, and contained the frankly insulting implication that there was a question mark over his ability to defeat a jumped up lackey with a ridiculous helmet. However, it did give him an idea. There had been women amongst the technical crew, had there not?

Following the instructions on piece of parchment headed: 'Urgent Contact Procedure' that Leviathan had insisted that he retain, he made the call.

Within a matter of moments, he was greeted by a female voice. "Hello, this is the Director of Information Systems. Please calmly explain the nature of your technical emergency."

He calmly explained the situation.

There was a pause. "So, you don't actually have a technical emergency?"

"This is a matter of urgency."

An audible sigh. "Well, what exactly do you want to use the car for?"

"I'm not going to use it. I'm creating a work of fiction: an erotic romance."

There was a spluttering noise, which sounded suspiciously like poorly suppressed laughter. However, he graciously decided to ignore it, and not remark on how easy it would be to dismantle her piece by piece. "And you want to know what women like?"

"You have a remarkable capacity for repetition."

"Alright, fine, I'll ask the team. Just let me put you on hold."

There was a beep, followed by something that sounded like it was making a futile effort to be music.

After a few minutes, the director returned. "Okay, there are four of us here for the departmental meeting at the moment. Lydia and I would both go for an Aston Martin Vanquish– as long as he let us drive it. But if I had to be stuck in the passenger seat, I'd want a Rolls Royce Phantom. Winona says that that if a man wants to impress her he should ride a bike and use public transport. And my office manager doesn't care as long as he's not a bastard from hell."

Deciding to take further advantage of this impromptu gathering, he was about to probe deeper, when there was some kind of commotion at the other end.

"Sorry, office crisis. Just give me a minute." There was a click, but this time the 'music' failed to engage, and he found himself listening to what sounded like a minor fracas.

 _"...I don't see why not,"_ a male voice, sounding like it was barely out of puberty, whined. _"It's him, after all."_

 _"... Leon, stop whinging about your stupid demon death match idea…,"_ yelled a second, though rather older, male.

Another female voice spoke up, too far away to be clear, but he made out the phrases: _retrograde notions of masculinity_ and _subverting conventional narratives._

A sigh from the director. _"… No Winona, this is definitely not the right time to open up a feminist dialogue… Kirst- oh fuck, are you alright, you're white as a sheet… Look, if you need a break…."_

It was then that he heard it. Quiet but distinct, and oh so familiar.

 _"No, I'm fine, really. I just wasn't expecting it yet."_

Kirsty Cotton?

 **-o0O0o-**

 **A/N:** Poor Kirsty, she really doesn't deserve any of this.


	3. Our valued client: Zippy Toe Teck

**A/N:** Thank you anon reviewer for the comment. I was thinking a little about Cabin in the Woods when I wrote part of this (although in this instance it's more a case of 'can we sell these eldrich abominations super-fast broadband?'). This chapter shamelessly riffs on another old classic. Now, I'm not sure how you're actually supposed to pronounce "Xipe", but I can't help but read it as Zippy. And as a British child of the 80s this immediately puts me in mind of a certain mouthy, yellow puppet. For those who didn't grow up with Zippy, George, Bungo and pals you can find old episodes of Rainbow on youtube, along with the infamous definitely-not-for-kids 'twangers' skit.

This is, needless to say, the point at which I should probably go and hide from Cenobitic wrath.

 **-o0O0o-**

 _Kirsty Cotton!_

Her presence on the other end of the line should not have surprised him. Hers was a life tainted by by contact with the schism between worlds. It was only natural that she should be drawn to work in such unnatural, reality fracturing enterprises. However, the awareness of her presence on the other side had elicited a certain frisson. A certain train of thought that began: would she this time possibly, maybe realise the futility of resistance… and ended with some form of squirming flesh (although though whose flesh it was and whether it was writhing in agony of ecstasy or both simultaneously was something that seemed to constantly shift in his usually focussed and disciplined mind)

He gritted his teeth. She was, to put it bluntly, making him feel all funny in his cassock again.

The question of 'why her?', had been one that he had asked himself many times. It was one that he was certain was fodder for the infernal gossip mill. And one that the Female – one of his most trusted allies – had once come right out with it.

There was, as is so often the case, a simple answer and a not so simple answer.

The simple answer was that she was the girl that got away. The one who'd defied the Labyrinth thrice. Who wouldn't want to haul her in and subject her to hell's best (or depending on your perspective hell's worst) VIP treatment?

However, there were a few problems with this appealingly straightforward train of reasoning. The first was that Frank Cotton had also been an escapee. And while Pinhead been satisfied to reclaim that particular soul and re-induct it into Leviathan's realm, he had taken a traditional hook and chain based approach, followed by the old eternity of ironic torments procedure. He certainly hadn't felt a particular desire to engage in any direct, hands-on interpersonal squirminess with that particular soul. Then there was the fact that on the last two occasions that Kirsty had got away he'd been actively aiding and abetting her. Oh, the first time could be put down to Elliot Spenser deciding to take over and have an inconvenient fit of morality. However, that last time the Hell Priest had been his fully, reintegrated self, and he'd still let her bargain her way out. Of course, five souls for the price of one did make superficial economic sense, but none of them had been all that diverting when all was said and done.

No, he'd been forced to admit to himself that while he wanted claiming rights on Kirsty Cotton, he wanted her to come along willingly. A sop to his own vanity perhaps, but Leviathan hadn't minded that last escape, and the ostensibly reasonable exchange she had bartered for it, and so all had remained copacetic between God and Hell Priest(1). As for why her specifically? The not so simple answer was that there was just something intriguing about her. It seemed to be a very particular distillation of defiance, sullied innocence, suppressed darkness, and wounded curiosity, all wrapped up in a blank canvas of flesh that had been in the right place at the right time when he'd been having one of his thoughtful moments.

His train of thought paused as he realised that his internal monologue was starting to sound like the musings of the fictional, Totec Black. Well, that reasonable, he was drawing on his own un-life experience. _Heavily_ drawing on his own un-life experience. However, this wasn't merely a juvenile exercise in wish fulfilment. He was serving his God. Very faithfully and diligently serving his God, with careful research, great patience, and greater deliberation on the matter of what a woman would wear on a semi-voluntary date with a billionaire playboy Hell Priest than he would have previously imagined to be mentally possible(2). And it wasn't as though he was shirking the plot in a hurry to get to the 'good bits' either, although the temptation to do so was often there.

A thought was however starting to germinate in his dark and twisted mind.

If the goal of this carefully crafted work of low art was to coax readers into a world of indistinguishable agony and ecstasy – which it clearly was – then they clearly needed to make sure that it was working as intended. And there was one group of humans who would be contractually obliged to read and provide constructive commentary.

-0-

(1)At the present time said Hell Priest strongly suspected that his God would be willing to trade souls for faster broadband.

(2)He could say with honesty and conviction that he hadn't spent hours trawling Kirsty Cotton's Facebook page for ideas. However, perhaps owed more to the fact that she had deleted it two years ago than any real sense of netiquette on Pinhead's part

 **-o0O0o-**

 ** _"You will speak now, quisling, or I will pry the words from the last broken fragments of your dismembered body."_**

 ** _Cowering, the minion pointed shakily towards the gaudy edifice of Dis Heights. "In there," he mumbled. He took them in there." It seemed that the Princess thought that the stolen papers could be hidden in plain sight._**

 ** _The sides of her lips curving upwards, Nickoletta drew her sickle. For a moment its gleaming steal burned orange in the setting sun, then she drew it sharply across the traitor's throat. It was a dull, quick death; and the gurgling sound that he made as he gasped his last was a sound that had grown mundane long ago. However, as the blood dripped from the blade to join the pool gushing out onto the ancient stone she raised her eyes to the blackness growing above them and gave thanks to Leviathan._**

Pleased with how the daring rooftop chase scene had ended, the Female Cenobite looked at her writing companion. "I believe that Gnasher's next move should be to seek out the Forever Brothers and find out what they know about the missing deeds. They will soon break their silence if he threatens to separate them."

Chatterer's teeth clattered together encouragingly, clearly approving of the idea. He might not have been an 'ideas' man, but his enthusiasm was certainly helping to bolster the endeavour.

The Female smiled a terrifying, yet genuinely happy smile. She had long been a faithful servant of Leviathan, taking pride and satisfaction in her blood soaked artistry. However, it had been a long time since she had been filled with this rush of excitement… of creative _joy_.

When she had taken her first tentative steps into the world of online communication, and commenced her research into erotic romance genre, she had been dismayed by how dull and anaemic it all was. It also struck her as somewhat ridiculous that the male leads seemed to habitually pursue reluctant virgins (or at least might-as-well-be-virgins) who showed every indication of disliking them, when there were clearly beings with similar interests and appetites in their immediate vicinity. However, after some deliberation on the matter she had been forced to admit to herself that she was also guilty of this, if not to the same extent as her leader (although Kirsty Cotton's ardent denial that her venture into the Labyrinth had been anything but accidental still seemed absurd). More importantly however she had realised that need not hinder the story of Nickoletta Selyse: deadly mercenary turned personal assistant and loyal enforcer.

Of course, there were other duties that needed to be attended to now. The supplicants would not after all flay themselves without proper supervision and guidances. However, she was looking forward to sharing her thoughts on the genre with Asajj and Aurra on the _Bald BDSM Babes of the Multiverse Book Club_ online community.

 **-o0O0o-**

Kirsty sank back in her office chair and groaned.

"You alright?" asked Lydia Wilkins, looking up from her bank of screens in the shaded corner of the open plan room.

"Just a little tired," she had admitted, trying not to look too fraught. Of all the new colleagues she'd had foisted on her, she liked sporty, cheerful Lydia best – even if she did keep trying to get Kirsty to join her tennis club, climbing group, and zumba class. She kept her working area relatively tidy and treated timesheets as a tedious but necessary task, rather than an affront to her dignity.

It was Friday afternoon and the two women were working alone. Winona and Gruzlak were outside taking photographs for some newsletter or other, Rashid was attending a workshop hosted by a Professor P Stibbons on "Floo Network Integration into Thaumotechnical Systems: The L Space Question", Kevin and Leon had gone to somewhere called The Nightside to pick up the kind of office supplies that you couldn't get from Staples, and Jenny had been ensconced in a board meeting for most of the day. It was, Kirsty thought, a relief not to be faced with refereeing the spats that invariably seemed to break out when everybody was in, especially not in her current state.

It had been now been forty-five hours since _that_ call had come through. Since she'd caught the faint but unmistakable sound of her nightmare made reality alternately berating the standard of customer service and asking probing questions about the modern female attitude to automobile appreciation. She had hardly slept since. Oh, it wasn't as though she'd been woken be night terrors and dreams of being cleaved apart. No it had been both better and worse than that. On the first night she'd dreamed about being about being strung up in chains in a her underwear: that looming, be-pinned demon standing before him. Not an uncommon scene in her tormented nighttime unconscious, and one that she'd long ago learned to brush aside. However, on this particular occasion, she hadn't faced the imminent terror of bisection. No this time he'd been holding an ostrich feather. And she hadn't woken up before the instrument of torment had been applied to her bare flesh either. A fact that left her in a worryingly ambivalent tangle of blankets, sweat and overly sensitised skin on awakening.

The second night had been even more bizarre however. She gone to bed exhausted and angry. Furious at the previous incursion into her sleeping world. In the dream she had been lounging in that three-thousand dollar ergonomic dream of a chair in Jenny's corner office, her feet comfortably elevated on a foot stool. Except when she'd looked it hadn't been a foot stool. It had been _Him_ : bound, bloodied, contorted… and somehow managing to maintain an utterly blank expression while exuding a poisonous aura of self-satisfaction. It had been infuriating, though not as infuriating as the jolt of 'not fear or outrage' that had shot through her.

Well, tonight it wasn't going to happen again. Tonight she was going to drink herself into a happily dreamless state of temporary oblivion and deal with the hangover in the morning.

She was contemplating whether to begin with red wine or vodka, when the door swung open and Jenny swept in, wearing a grin that was more befitting of a naughty schoolgirl than a professional cynic. She was followed by the company CEO, whose beam was even more insanely gleeful.

"What is it?" Lydia said. Clearly keen to be in on whatever joke was going down.

Jenny's gestured to the CEO. "Go on Diarmait, read it out. You can do the voice."

He could not in fact 'do the voice', but Kirsty could tell who he was aping as he began to say the words outloud.

 _"Dear Mr Fairchild,_

 _It has recently come to my attention that one of your minions has been fraternising with one of my own Cenobites. I have magnanimously decided to allow their insipid conversations to continue unpunished. However, it occurs to me that the current amicable state of affairs between our respective domains would be better served by a more sophisticated exchange of ideas. To this end I have attached the first five chapters of a novel that my acolytes and I are creating, for the consideration and edification of the females in your place of work. Please ensure that they return their "feedback forms" within the next five days._

 _Additionally, please inform the one known as 'Kev' that his doubt in my ability to crush a minor personification of wrath with a ridiculous helmet is as amusing as it is offensive._

 _Yours sincerely,  
Xipe Totec"_

"Zippy Totec?" Lydia repeated incredulously. " _Zippy Totec!_ You mean he's named after that puppet from Rainbow?"

Jenny snorted. "Well, it could be pronounced Zipe - or Zippay if you want to be pretentious about it, but my money's on plain old Zippy."

"Email back and ask him whether the fat one's Bungo or George," suggested Lydia.

"May I remind you that Mr Totec is a highly favoured representative of one of our newest and most important clients clients," Diarmait Fairchild said, failing to keep his own grin from widening further. "And don't think that I don't know about the nicknames either."

"It's not like I'd ever call him pin-prick to his face," protested Lydia.

"Now, come on Lydia it's unfair to insult a man's pride unless you've seen it for yourself first hand." Diarmait shot a hopeful wink at Jenny, who raised an amused eyebrow.

This seemed to send Lydia's mirth sky-rocketing. "Maybe we could ask to see his twanger. It might be big and red."

"With a shiny bit of metal piercing it," Jenny added.

"Just as long as he doesn't want to grab my maracas."

"From what I've seen he's got enough plucking instruments to last an eternity, though I really wouldn't want to blow on his pipes. The equipment in that place just doesn't look sanitary."

Kirsty stared as three of the boldest trailblazers of cross-reality mass communication were reduced to masses of helpless guffawing. She had no idea why they suddenly seemed to have regressed to age thirteen, but there were certain subjects that she really didn't want to entertain and the state of _His_ well, _you know_ was definitely one of them. Especially not right now.

"It was a kids TV show over here in the 80s," explained Lydia, picking up on her bafflement. "There was a mouthy yellow puppet called Zippy, who had a zip for lips."

Her brow furrowed. "A _children's_ show?"

"The twangers episode was a skit for adults. I'll send you a link."

Diarmait Fairchild cleared his throat. "The question is, ladies, whether you want to read Mr. Totec's masterpiece in the making or not. We're contractually obliged to respond to all queries from the top brass about twenty first century attitudes – the big diamond was playing hardball when we negotiated that bit of the contract - but I could get the PR girls onto it. It's the sort of thing we pay them for."

Jenny shrugged. "I'll have a look. I'm stuck in waiting for the plumber tomorrow. It might give me something to laugh at."

"Yeah, me too," said Lydia. "Could be a giggle. How about you Kirsty?"

Kirsty could have said no. She could have plead a prior engagement, or just straight out said that she didn't want to do it. However, she didn't, the perverse spirit of defiance that wouldn't seem to let her be cowed and 'leave be' reared up, paradoxically prompting her to do exactly what _He_ was asking for.

"Sure, I'm in."

 **-o0O0o-**

High above the Labyrinth the great and terrible Leviathan sullenly regarded his domain. He just couldn't believe that Sid had backed out of their raid like that (some piss poor excuse about idiot apprentices – hah, that dilettante should ditch the Rule of Two cop out and try overseeing a whole dimension full of acolytes). The Forces of Goodness and Light were probably quaffing heavenly ambrosia and making smug, self-righteous remarks about the inevitable failure of evil right now.

He supposed that he should get back to ruling his dominion of flesh and desire with an iron fist for a while. However, he'd done such a good job of distracting his favourite Cenobites that he wasn't quite ready to draw attention back to himself.

Then as his mind's eye idly scrolled through the amusements on offer to the single player, a title caught his eye. The Sims Infinity: Your Own Universe.

There was nothing to be lost by having a look.

The portal opened.

He was asked to name his neighbourhood. He entered: _The Labyrinth_.

Soon he had created the Totec household, the Channard household, the Khaleesi household(1) and the Cotton household. He was a little disappointed to find the range of careers on offer to be so limited. However, there was something oddly compelling about watching the little pixel personae interact with one another, striving to keep their status bars in the green.

Time passed.

As the bells of the Labyrinth tolled anew and supplicants were reaped in he didn't bother to switch his gaze to them, trusting in his favourite Hell Priest ability to oversee things. After all, if he didn't improve Sim Xipe's cooking skill soon, he might destroy the kitchen again and none of the Totec household were earning enough to pay for another one yet.

-0-

(1)Leviathan may have sometimes lamented his daughter's failure to reach her full potential. However, if there was one thing that had recently united them it was their firm pro-Targaryen stance.

 **-o0O0o-**

 **A/N:** At this point Leviathan probably needs some kind of intervention.


End file.
